


Waifs and Strays

by Cluegirl



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Therapists, Angst, Animal Transformation, Canon appropriate violence aftermath, Crack, Fics I Will Never Finish, Gaslighting, Hunting Bucky, M/M, Monsters, Night Terrors, Nothing here is a complete story, Other, Psychiatric incarceration, Zombies, lightweight BDSM, serial killer trophy hunting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 17:31:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14025168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: Some stories you get partway into, and just lose steam on them.  When they've been lurking around, unfinished for more than 2 years, I figure it's best to just admit defeat and release them into the wild.  So that's what these are.





	1. The Most Dangerous Game

**Author's Note:**

> I am decidedly pro-fanfic. If anybody wants to adopt any of these works and finish them, please do so with my compliments. I'd just like to be linked to the finished product, and if you keep my prose as written, to have a partial credit for the final result.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be the story of Steve and Sam discovering HYDRA's bank vault and programming chair in DC, bu tracing Rumlow's grisly little serial killer trophies to the site. I had some vague notion of having Steve sit in the chair, needing to punish himself by trying to imagine what it must have been like for Bucky, only not knowing that the Winter Soldier was near enough to see it and freak the FUCK out about seeing it.

"No offense to Natasha," Sam said with a nod to the worn file in Steve's hands, "But I don't think that's the place to start lookin."

Steve sighed and let the file fall closed. "I know. This information's all years out of date. But what else have we got? Pierce isn't gonna give up anything now, and even Natasha's upload didn't have anything useful on the Winter Soldier project." He scrubbed at his face and tried not to notice how the after-images looked too much like Cyrillic. "We gotta start somewhere."

"So what about this guy?" There was a skidding sound, and something bumped lightly against Steve's elbow.

He opened his eyes to find a too-familiar face staring up at him from Sam's tablet with a smile that only looked leeringly false in the harsh light of hindsight. "Rumlow?" Steve asked, blinking again. "Thought you said he went down in the Tryskelion." And hadn't he been relieved to hear that, too -- that Steve wasn't going to have to watch his back against yet another enemy who'd once pretended to be his friend.

"Damn straight, he did," Sam agreed with a defiantly unrepentant nod as he turned his chair backward and sat across the kitchen table from Steve. "Thing is, I read his file, and it don't say so in as many words, but I can't help thinking this guy had to be all up in that shit with the Winter Soldier."

 _Bucky! His name's Bucky!_ Steve didn't say it. Took a deep breath and nodded instead. Folded his hands over the file and answered, "Okay." 

Sam took the invitation at once. "First off, he's like up your ass from day one, right?" He said, scrolling Rumlow's file downward, showing the field reports, orders, and sitreps the man had never intended for anyone loyal to SHIELD to see. "Every mission, damn near every training session, even your uniform trials, he's _there_. Dude did everything but ask if he could move in next to you. And I don't think it's cause he had him a crush, either."

Steve snorted, but offered back a grimacing nod. "Told myself he was acting like a fan, you know? SHIELD had its share, and some of them can get pretty creepy."

"Stalking's stalking, whether you're after blood or autographs," Sam nodded, sympathetic. "Now Rumlow here -- Hill said he was all over the place that day we hit the Tryskelion -- Operations, launch control, the Tower -- he was on his way to Administration when I caught up with him. That ain't a drone following orders there, Cap, that's someone who aims to be a Player. I've met his type before. He's a grunt who thinks he's fit to take down the alpha dog; plenty to prove, and looking for every chance he can get to prove it, only he don't come in straight to the challenge. Not unless he knows he's bigger."

"Or thinks he does," Steve countered.

"Point is," Sam pressed on, unimpressed but maybe a little flattered by Steve's loyalty, "When he's after really big game, punching way the hell above his weight, that's when he's an ambush hunter. The kind of dude who stakes a goat out in a field to attract a tiger, then waits in a tree with his rifle."

 _Just want you to know, this ain't personal..._ The words still sounded just as gleeful as the cackle of the stun baton that had followed them. Steve took a deep breath, pulling his shoulders back and down. "Still not seeing the connection to Bucky," he told Sam, keeping the sting of that betrayal -- a tiny little thing against the weight of all SHIELD turning rotten underneath him -- to himself.

Sam shook his head, still not buying. "Steve, Rumlow was _there_. Right fucking _there_ after the Soldier hit us on the freeway -- Johnny on the spot with a rifle to the back of your head just as soon as you hit the ground. He _studied_ you, man," A tap to the tablet that made the text wobble. "For years, looking for your weak spots. You think for a minute Rumlow didn't know how it would hit you when you saw the face under the Soldier's mask? He was in it, man. Up to the neck."

And no, it wasn't the kind of evidence a jury would convict on, but Steve's gut, given the benefit of hindsight, was starting to cast its vote Sam's way on the matter. Still... "We're not gonna get a lot out of him now though," Steve pointed out. "Even if we did go digging him out from under the Tryskelion."

There, Sam's face twisted into a trickster's grin, sidelong and smug. "Other thing I know about dudes like that," he offered, "is that they always love their damn trophies."

"Trophies," Steve repeated, belly sinking as his gut affirmed the matter yet again.

"Count on it," Sam said. "Like I said, I seen the type over in Afghanistan. He don't just want to take the big dog down, he wants to keep a piece around to remind him and everybody else that he did it. He might make his kill in secret, but he's got to have his proof. And," Sam reached out a finger and scrolled the file back up to the top, where Rumlow, Brock, Level 7 Strike Team Operative, leered out past his neatly ordered personal details. "He's got to have someplace to keep that proof safe."

"That's a SHIELD apartment," Steve said after he'd read the address. "Even if he kept anything there, it will have been swept clean by now."

Sam gave a shrug and a grin that was all dare. "Be a quick search then, won't it?" And damn if that didn't dig right into that part of Steve that hadn't ever known how to back down from a challenge. "I don't think it's all that far away from here. What, two, three stops on the Metro, maybe?"

"What the heck," Steve rolled his eyes and shoved back his chair. "We got a couple of hours till the game starts. Might as well waste them there as here."

"This'll be more fun than watching the Yankees get beat anyway," Sam promised, though they both knew it for a lie.

 

~*~

_Mission failure_

It goes through his head over and over, until the words stop having meaning, and become only a burning weight, throbbing in his temples. 

_Mission failure. Mission failure. Mission failure._

He tries to ignore it -- he is used to ignoring pain -- he tells himself he has a new mission now. The dark man has not come to find him, to bring him to the light man who tells him what he must do. He has watched for them for days, and they have not come. 

He thinks first that it is because he has failed. The mission is incomplete, and so the orders must remain standing, (Captain America; kill. Black Widow; capture. Allies thereof; neutralize.) Only... there is something in his belly -- not quite a memory, but far more certain than a notion -- which tells him that previous mission is canceled, forbidden, impossible. That cannot be his mission anymore... but he doesn't know what his mission now _is_ , and no one has come to tell him.

He has watched for the faces he is required to remember, listened for his Order Codes in the distant voices of the salvage and rescue crews as they combed the river and its wreckage. No one came. He has been left behind, untreated at his work-site before, he thinks, and those times it had been because his orders had been to neutralize secondary targets among the responders -- to maintain staging until the audience for whom his handlers had set him to perform should arrive on the scene. 

That is not the case now. Something inside him twists at the thought of taking aim at the medics who swarm over the Captain ( _Steve_! His name is Steve!) once he is found. It is heavy, the thought, and it hurts in his throat, makes it hard to swallow the saliva which suddenly floods his mouth. He thinks it might be rage, which is forbidden, and so he doesn't shoot anybody. He moves farther away instead, where he will not see their scissors flash as they cut the blue, white and red uniform away, where he will not hear them recite the paternoster of wounds he has left behind him on the flesh of this man who calls him friend ( _Mission_ ) where he will not see them take him away from him again.

He needs a mission though. He needs a direction, and the light man with blue eyes has always been the one who tells him where to go. But there are people at the light man's house when he finds his way there. People with dark glasses and angry faces, boxes and boxes and boxes and trucks with armored doors, and none of them have the right faces, the right words to soothe him. None of them know to look for him, none even suspect he's there, watching from the drainage covert as they remove the light man with blue eyes' life piece by calm, serene piece. This is what it looks like after a mission is complete -- the evidence of life broken down, studied, snipped away into boxes and carried off. He's seen it before, though never so close, and never without a scope's crosshairs to frame the view. 

The light man with blue eyes must be dead. He wonders what shape the century has now that he has failed his mission. (But I knew him.) He wonders if anyone has cleaned up the maid's blood, or if they're tracking their shiny shoes through it as they empty the house. He wonders if there is still milk inside the refrigerator. Then he leaves the place, his stomach tight and sore around a feeling he thinks might be a savage kind of pleasure. Or maybe grief.

He needs a mission.

He has always had one, or has had, at least, people around him who could give him one. His head throbs with a hollowness he cannot fathom now. It is almost a sound, ( _Mission failure_ ), the percussive background, and over the top, where the symphony of trajectory, angle, timing, speed, tracking data have always flowed, there is nothing but the creak of his steps on the pavement, the vague sussuration of people (incidentals) passing not-too-near him, traffic (obstacles) whirring past in ever more crowded streets.

Only no, there is something else. Something so faint it takes wandering days to come into range of his hearing it, and hours of desperate focus before he can tease it out from between the dragging slowness (tired) the shaking, (cold) and the ache in his throat and gut (hungry.)

( _Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant three two five five seven oh three eight _) Over and over and over again. A slight echo, as if in a buried space with cold water and colder tables. ( _Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant three two five five seven oh three eight _) He knows the name. He knows it. He's heard it too many times to forget. ( _Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant three two five five seven oh three eight _)______

______He stops in his tracks, shocked out of his shambling fugue by the realization; _He_ said that name -- the Captain had, sent a spike of pain, confusion, fury through his head with those very words, but the voice in his head is _his own_. _ _ _ _ _ _

______"Barnes." His throat is so dry, so clogged with long silence that it clicks around the word. There is no answering scream of pain over the hollow throb of his skull, so he swallows, tries again._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Barnes, James Buchanan." Still no correction, just a growing sort of heat in his chest. "Sergeant three two five five seven oh three eight shit fuck dammit!" He folds down hard, arms clenched over his belly, vision swimming as sensation -- as knowing floods him like a million restless needles. Barnes! James Buchanan! Sergeant three two five five seven oh three eight barnes james buchanan sergeant three two five five seven oh threebarnesjamesbuchanansergeantthreetwofivefive-_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Hey. Buddy, you okay?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Bucky," he corrects without thinking. ( _Who the hell is Bucky?_ )_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Sure," the person says, ( _Male, fifties, latino, ex military, intransigent, undernourished, shaking hands, unwashed, alcohol on his breath._ ) crouching out of reach, so his shadow falls long and cold across his shaking shoulders. "Look, Bucky, you need a clinic or something? Cause you look pretty rough."_ _ _ _ _ _

______A clinic. Medical. Wires and lights and needles, metal tables and pain and drains in the floor, and -- "No!" the word is out of his mouth before he thinks of speaking it. But then another thought, electric in its strangeness, like snow in breathless August when the tar runs liquid on Brooklyn rooftops -- the Captain ( _Steve_ ) was hurt. They will have taken him to the hospital. His mission ( _friend_ ) can lead him to the next mission. And then the swimming weight in his head will settle. The ache of confusion in his bones will calm, and the static buzzing through his thoughts will freeze and drift away like snow, and he knows this isn't right._ _ _ _ _ _

______There's a part of him that's ready to stand and walk, any direction, any duration, face down any number of uniforms and cameras and guns until his handlers find him and settle the storm ( _threetwofivefivesevenohthreeeight_ ) in his head. But something inside him ( _Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant_ ) won't have that. _ _ _ _ _ _

______"Bucky?" The man says again. And he's holding out a flask, some clear alcohol within. His eyes are dark and sympathetic, and the ghosts of bullets in hot places shows through the worn, wary kindness in his face. He is nothing like the dark man -- no sneer, no gloat in his eyes, no electric prod of pain hanging from his belt -- but taking the bottle from his hand isn't something he can do yet. The man seems to understand. He sips from the flask, sets it down, the cap perched loosely on the threads. "When was the last time you ate, man?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Ate?" he parrots back._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Yeah. You shakin pretty good there, and I'm guessin it ain't you need a fix."_ _ _ _ _ _

______A fix. He does need a fix though, a fix, a mission, another long look at that fair, chiseled face that was almost, _almost_ familiar. ( _I knew him_ ) "I... I'm hungry?" He tries the word out, realizes instantly that it's true -- that it's been true for days. He can't remember the last time he ate food, can't remember the last time his teeth were used for anything but weapons, or the shaping of his few, brief words. He glances up again, finds the old man grinning. "I'm hungry."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Yeah, looks that way," the man agrees. "Come on with me. I know a place don't ask questions. We can get you some grub there. Maybe a bed, if you can fake a prayer or two."_ _ _ _ _ _

______He stands, and the old man stands too, waves one unsteady hand for him to come abreast, shoulder to shoulder. Falling into step is so easy, so natural it almost makes his eyes burn with relief. He knows this. Marching. He _remembers_. _ _ _ _ _ _

______He just needs to remember where it is he's marching too. And then he can rest. And then he can forget._ _ _ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

______~*~_ _ _ _ _ _

______Brock Rumlow's apartment was, in fact, empty. The furniture and personal effects all gone, the windows sheeted with plastic, paint trays and ladders assembled in the living room, just waiting for Monday to come and bring the Painters with it. Not even the man's musky, cheap cologne haunted the rooms to show he'd been there -- the evidence of a life, or at least the facile seeming of one, entirely erased from the premises, courtesy of SHIELD or HYDRA, whichever had gotten to it first._ _ _ _ _ _

______Brock Rumlow had been, however, just a little bit more old-fashioned than his handlers had expected him to be._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Seriously?" Sam asked as Steve sat back on his heels, a sooty brick in one hand, and a small, shiny brass key in the other. "The clearing teams have had damn near two weeks to scrub this place clean, but you just walk in and find the secret hiding place that every scanner, sniffer, and metal detector missed? Just like that?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve grinned and shrugged, meanly wiping his sooty fingers on the brand new beige carpet. "Just a lucky guess."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sam peered at him, skeptical. "You're psychic, aren't you? You're some kinda mind reading mutant. What number am I thinking of right now?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Pi?" Steve guessed, then grinned at Sam's disappointment. "Seriously, I only checked the fireplace out of habit. Folks didn't trust banks much when I was a kid, so everybody kept their valuables -- if they had any -- in places like this. If there hadn't been a loose brick in there, I'da gone and checked the U-bends in the sinks next."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Uh huh. You know my condo's probably got rules against prying up floorboards for stashing purposes."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I'm just an out of work soldier," Steve shrugged, tossing the brick back into the hearth. "What've I got that's worth stashing?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sam's unimpressed look cracked into a grin. "Yeah, I guess you got the Smithsonian for that, don't you? Anything else in that hole?" Anyone else would have said something about Steve's shield, lost to the wreck and the river, or else they'd have left a bleeding hole in the conversation so it couldn't be missed that they were thinking about its loss, and wondering how Steve could possibly consider himself whole without it. Everyone else had done so, from Natasha to Fury, to President Ellis' Chief of Staff, when he turned up to inform Steve that his stay in the hospital was on the President's dime -- a token of thanks from a man who'd been rattled and humbled to learn that he was on HYDRA's First Strike list, and his Secret Servicemen hadn't been able to do a thing about it. Stark had taken his shot long distance, sending Steve a toy replica of his shield, with a tiny motor inside that fired soft foam rings when he pulled the trigger. Steve was planning to paint the foam rings to look like Tony's arc reactor, and fire them at his head next time the Genuis presented it._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve hadn't bothered to tell any of them that, as much as he'd loved the shield, as useful as it was, and as often as it had saved his own and others' lives, it was only a tool. Steve really was the same man without it. He figured that anybody he had to tell that to wouldn't understand it anyhow._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sam, however, seemed to get it. Maybe it was because of the Falcon unit, or maybe it was because, unlike the rest of them, Sam knew what it was to be a soldier, but he'd never mentioned the shield, or its absence after Steve had managed to get through the story of his letting it go on the Helicarrier. And even then, he'd only asked, "Did it work?" Steve hadn't known the answer to that, and graciously, Sam had let the question drop. He hadn't ever picked it up again, and to Steve's continued gratitude, he didn't look likely to now._ _ _ _ _ _

______Steve fished out his phone, and used the light to peer into the ashy gap the shaved-down brick had come out of. Inside was mostly trash, but he pulled it all out anyhow. An old bronze subway token. A fortune cookie message predicting a change of luck in the future. A blank deposit slip from a bank lobby. A small hand cut nail. A catalogue card from the library, a brackish stain blotting out half of its stamps._ _ _ _ _ _


	2. Curse of the Cat Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written pre-Cap 2. This was always meant to be a crackfic, and very little more. I think the prompt was about Tony being turned into a kitten, and Steve adopting him, and I was trying to come up with a novel transformation scenario. I stopped because even using the villainess to demonstrate how cultural appropriation is creepy and not okay began to feel creepy and not okay to me. Still, the opening scenes are cute, IMO.

Strike one: The kid was calling herself "Bastet". Not that Steve had anything in particular against pagan deities – after all, the first commandment didn't say 'There **Are** No Other Gods', and even if it did, there was a certain Asgardian of Steve's acquaintance that put a hell of a dent in that particular religious viewpoint every time he dished out a smiting. Thing was though, unless you actually _were_ the pagan deity in question, Steve didn't hold with taking a God's name -- any God's – name in vain.

And there was no way a sixteen year old skinny white girl with a strongly midwest accent was the ancient Egyptian cat-Goddess, no matter how much havoc her powers might unleash on the Bronx zoo on Free-Ice Cream Sunday. And havoc was about the only word for it, really, hippos, alligators, and cobras, every great cat in the place had been enlarged to ridiculous proportions, and set like attack dogs on the crowd, swarms of beetles flew into faces, crawled into clothes, and greased the ground underfoot, and that was only half bad.

Because in addition to rescuing the civilians, extracting the wounded, trying to capture the little menace behind the trouble, and fending off magically enhanced animal attacks, they had to deal with the zoo's animal handlers trying to defend their maddened charges as well. The Hulk had already been tazed once for punching a hippo. That had not ended well.

"Cap, I see her," Barton clipped over the comm as Steve was trying to wrestle down a thirty foot long prehistoric reptile while trying to remember whether it was alligators or crocodiles you could disarm by propping their jaws open with a stick, and how the heck did you tell the two apart anyway. "She's on your six, by the giraffes."

He risked a glance, and nearly lost his grip on its snout as the damned thing rolled over on him again. "Little busy," he spluttered when they came up out of the water entirely too near the derailed viewing trolley and its cargo of panicked passengers. "Can you drive her this way?"

"Negative," he replied, "fucking orangutan stole my quiver while I was climbing up here. Bitch is on the other side of the park by now, and I hope he blows himself up with it. I'm all eyes now."

"Well who's-" it was all Steve had time to say before the reptile rolled them under the water again. "Gah! Aveng-" Another ducking. "REPORT!"

"Lions!" Natasha, a breathless tone, one word spared from a full-speed sprint. Steve hoped she was leading the chase somewhere she could get out of once the pride had followed her in.

"I had been told the Midgard serpents were more fearsome," Thor complained. "Their spittle burns a bit, but they fall readily enough." Electricity crackled on the heels of that announcement, betraying that the God was probably having more fun than he was letting on.

"Hippos are back in their pens, and Hulk's playing pat-the-tiger, Cap," Tony called, blasting up over the roof of the cafeteria in a blaze of white. "Need a hand with Croc-zilla there?" Steve didn't bother replying, he just clamped both his thighs around the jaws, picked his head up out of the water and pointed, coughing, toward the laughing girl perched on top of the elephant shed's roof. "Oh, I got her," Tony answered, his robotic voice laden with a cocky grin as he took off for their quarry. 

Steve braced his back against a bridge piling and punched the damned alligator – he thought it was an alligator, anyway – between the eyes with his shield. Not that he expected it to work or anything, but it did make him feel a little better, and it stopped the damned rolling for long enough that he could catch his breath.

"Here!" The shout came from above him, one of the park rangers was leaning out of the trolley's windows, a stout coil of rope in her hands. "Use this!"

"Obliged, ma'am," he coughed as she tossed it across the muddy water, then he got down to tying some of the fastest knots he'd ever tied in his life.

"Sure, sure, the animals are sacred and you're just setting them free," Tony was snarking over the comms when Steve finally climbed out of the swamp and headed that way. "And the ransom you demanded from the Mayor's office is what, your administrative fee?" He didn't hear the girl's answer, but he watched Iron Man track right, then left again, toying with the kid like a cat with a mouse. "Give it up, Tiffy," and good Lord, but that smirk was as annoying to hear as it was to see, "you're as last-week as those pants. Which speaking of, seriously? The 80's were a fashion disaster the first time around, and you are _not_ rocking their resurrected corpse right now."

"Enough, Iron Man," Steve grunted, hoisting himself to the top of the enclosure's palisade, "Bring her in." Then he ducked and slung his shield as a gigantic stork came over the fence in a storm of blue feathers. He caught it across one wing, and it spiraled honking back to earth, well shy of Iron Man. Steve paused only long enough to catch the shield, and to verify with a glance that Hawkeye was keeping pace above him on the rope-highway the zoo had apparently put up for the entertainment of its apes. Said apes were hanging back at least thirty yards from him, which was probably a good idea – given how furious the archer looked, he probably wouldn't be above kicking a chimp in the jewels just out of spite if one got near enough.

"Right, we're done with the Angry Birds routine," Tony said, pushing closer. His repulsor boots roared against the shed's concrete roof. "You're out of tricks, and your truant officer's waiting in the lobby, so-" 

Steve was close enough now to hear the girl shouting back, rage making her shrill. "Shut up! You can't make me!"

"Can so!"

"Can not, OMG! SHUT UP!" And then came a thick, hollow smashing sound, like clay dishes meeting their end all at once in a stack. Steve hoisted himself up over the roof in time to see the Iron Man armor go wheeling backward past him, skidding on its repulsors until the roof ran out, then toppling flat down to the mucky ground without a single peep from the man inside it.

"What just happened?" he clipped, low and fierce as he put distance between him and a similar fall. The girl, standing in a field of potsherds, hadn't noticed him yet, but Steve was pretty sure it would be mere seconds before she did.

"Threw a fucking _bowl_ at him," Clint answered, mystified. "Smashed on his chest, and he went right over. I do not _even_ know, Cap!"

"Jarvis, run extraction protocol beta," Steve growled, still not hearing any sound of movement from the armor below. "Authorization code 'Stark You Idiot'." The girl looked up then, hiccuped and scrambled back a step, crockery grinding under her fringed boots.

"No override command detected," the AI replied, "Authorization accepted." Steve heard the repulsors whine to life, and then the armor thrust itself into the air, and away toward the waiting medics in the parking lot.

"Keep away from me," the girl warned him. "I will not be touched by the likes of you!"

Steve kept a straight face, barely. "The likes of me will go a lot easier on you than the likes of the Hulk, Miss, so put down the weapons before things get any worse for you."

"Cap," Barton called an unnecessary warning – he'd heard the thrashing of wings behind him, and seen the girl reach beneath her coat too. He tilted his shield a little, caught sight of the vast, black silhouette against the sky, the pale hooked talons, the naked head and enormous stabbing beak, and mentally clocked the giant vulture's descent against the girl's windup pitch. He took the clay on his shield, angled just so to glance it upward instead of shattering, then he dove hard to the left, tumbling out of the talons' reach, and caught the bowl as it fell. Bird and girl both screamed as the vulture's talons shrieked along empty concrete, and, lacking enough room to stop, skidded right off the back end of the shed.

Steve set the bowl aside then rolled to his feet and slung the shield at the back of the vulture's knobby grey head. The girl ducked with a squeal as it zinged past her, and that let Steve close the distance between them in two long strides. 

"Put it down, miss," he said as the vulture squawked and fell out of the air, its flailing knocking the shield clean into the panda enclosure. The girl stared after the bird for a second, as if she couldn't believe it wasn't coming back to attack him again. Then she realized she didn't have anywhere to go that wasn't twenty feet straight down, and fetched two more bowls out of her billowing coat. Steve sighed, "I don't much like hitting ladies." 

"But in my case you'll make an exception?" she sneered, and hurled a bowl at Steve's head.

He caught it with ease. "I've met real Ladies, miss," he said, shifting to a knuckleball grip on the bowl. "Term doesn't really apply here."

She shrieked outrage, flung her second bowl at him, and Steve was done. He whipped the heavy little bowl back at her, caught the second on his follow through, and sent it after the other – a one-two punch that clipped her on the temple, and over the eyes, spinning her off the edge of the shed in a hail of flying crockery. Steve caught her by the coattails, slinging her solidly back onto the roof – call that his good deed for the day, he figured. The elephant handlers had enough to clean up already.

~*~

The remaining cleanup was relatively easy. Apparently once the little menace was out for the count – and Steve resolutely refused to feel any guilt regarding her possible concussion – the animals reverted to their normal sizes and habits. Which, in the case of the big cats, hippos and various reptiles wasn't much of an improvement, but was something the zoo keepers could cope with, at least.

Thor had a couple of giant cobra bites, and seemed fascinated by the idea of an antivenin, Hawkeye, Agent Coulson and an ape trainer were negotiating via sign language with the orangutan for the return of Clint's equipment. The Hulk had apparently found the pandas soothing, and had chosen their enclosure for a nap, to the relief of many, and the apparent amusement of the bears themselves. Natasha had a fine set of racing stripes across one shoulder, but given the reach and speed of the lioness that had given them to her, she seemed more proud of the injury than annoyed by it. And knowing how quickly and cleanly she tended to heal, Steven wasn't overly worried for her – Natasha was pragmatic about medical care and respecting her injuries. A rare gift among super heroes, really.

Given that Steve's injuries had all been minor enough to heal up before he'd even got to the medical tent, that left just Tony for him to worry about.


	3. Dream a Little Dream of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written post CA2:WS, and pre AOU. It was meant to be a Homecoming fic with a Steve/Bucky/Sam D/s relationship endgame. The concept being that Steve gets night terrors under stress, and he's so very high-functioning in them that it's actively dangerous to people nearby. Bucky of old used power transfer and Dom/sub play to help him release that stress in a safe way, and not go all killing machine in his sleep.

The hell of it was, it had actually been a really good day -- not in the 'crushing HYDRA, capturing Winter Soldier intel and pretending it wasn't gonna kill a little more of Steve's soul when he got around to reading it' kind of way, nor in the 'grasping at rumors and finding a scrap of proof that Steve's long lost Bestie was still alive and kicking and maybe not so brainwashed anymore' kind of way either.

It had just been a Good Day, a bit of much needed downtime stolen on the heels of a blizzard that had buttoned them up in an Upstate New York hotel for half of a week. The storm had cleared out, the town had dug out, and Sam and Steve -- bored, fed, slept-out, but still not ready to hit the road yet -- had gone out wandering in the Currier & Ives fantasy land. Two weeks before Christmas, and the little town was all but toothache material. Shops downtown had crock pots of cider and paper cups beside the doors, lamp posts had big red ribbons on them, and holly and evergreen and twinkly lights bedecked every surface, and half the dogs in town. And carolers, man! They even had carolers all dolled up in matching outfits, up to their knees in fresh white powder, and wishing the hustling shoppers a Merry Christmas at the top of their four part harmonies. The ugly sweaters were simply epic.

Steve had eaten it up, smiling at the lights and decorations and Dickens-is-watching-you mania in an uncomplicated way that had made all of Sam's Virginia-bred sass just shrivel up and hush its mouth because he didn't see his friend smile like that on any old day now, did he? So he'd followed Steve through the Christmas Market and antiques district with his hands in his pockets, and his jaded opinions firmly set aside, and it had been, God damn it, a really Good Day.

It wasn't a good night though. It wasn't a good night at _all_

"Cap," Sam said, voice pitched low and careful in the darkness, "It's 2014. You're in a hotel in Green County, and you need to wake up now."

The man looming beside his bed did not shift, the gun in his hands did not waver, but the faint light that made it through the curtains gleamed in wet streaks along his face as he snarled, "I am awake, _Herr Doktor_. I am wide awake right now, and you know what? I still can't think of a reason not to kill you where you stand."

Sam swallowed, hard, scrambling through sleep fog and adrenaline to remember everything he'd ever learned about night terrors. "Steve, I'm lying down-"

"Can't think why I ever saved your miserable life," he growled, and Sam could see his naked chest was heaving, breaths so taut and tight he might almost have been panting, but for how his teeth barely parted to let the words through. "He was worth ten of you. A hundred of you, and every damned one of your faceless HYDRA minions!" 

"Christ, Steve it's me," Sam let the strain bleed into his voice, pleading and unashamed of it as Steve finally shifted, drew his weight to one foot and pressed the other knee, slow and dreadful, into the mattress beside Sam's hip. "You know me, man; I'm the guy on your right, okay? You know you're not still back there. You know I'm not him."

Steve's eyes were open, hard and pitiless as Sam hadn't even imagined they could be. Ice held more kindness, and Sam realized that whatever dream had Steve Rogers by the throat, it ran too deep for talk to pry it loose. He was going to have to fight Captain America's nightmares if he didn't want to become the newest one of them. 

"Well I have my orders for now," Steve breathed, leaning close and cold so that the gun's muzzle hovered barely inches from Sam's nose. Sam turned his wrist, closed his fingers tight around the pillowcase, and didn't breathe. "And those orders say you're useful, but it's a long walk back to the extraction point, and you're not exactly dressed for the weather." How could his voice be so damned cold even while tears were still leaking down his face, dripping hot and loud on the hotel's cheap sheets? How long had this dream choked at him in silence until it found this horrible voice? "Frostbite's a problem in these mountains. Men lose toes, even whole feet sometimes. Think you'd grow two new ones if we had to cut one of yours off?" 

"Never happened, Steve," Sam tried one last time as the gun dragged down along the blankets and stopped just below his knee. "You know it didn't go down like this. You ain't this guy, and you never were, and it don't matter how bad it hurt at the time." He clenched his pillow, tightening his belly to lift his head just _so_ much. One last try, and then it would be all down to praying for luck. "Steve, man, you got to wake up now."

"Move!"

One word, clipped and loud, and nowhere anybody had a reason to be, but Sam damned well obeyed that very instant. He rolled hard into Steve's body mass, kicking clear of that pressing gun and whipping the pillow up against the man's head as the mattress jounced and rattled like a ship on rough seas.

There was no shot, no trigger click, just a shocked grunt and a heaving protest from the bedsprings as the Winter Soldier hit Steve square in the chest and bore him struggling to the floor. Sam flinched as the pistol bounced off his ribs, but caught it before it could slide to the floor, into the reach of the super soldiers who were wrapped tight around each other and snarling like pit dogs.

The safety was still on. Sam stole a breath of bone deep relief at that realization before he thumbed it off and sat up in the bed.

Steve was on his back, one arm pinned by the Winter Soldier's legs, the other one clawing at the gleaming silver arm that pressed tight against his throat. The other hand, the Soldier had clamped over Steve's eyes, pinning his head in place as he muttered, low and fast against Steve's temple.

"Let him go," Sam snapped, aiming the pistol but keeping himself on the bed.

Barnes flicked an angry glance his way, then ignored him. The arm whirred, plates shifting as Steve struggled against it, but the Soldier's grip held. Sam chambered a round. "I mean it, man. He'd never forgive me for shooting you, but at this range I will _not_ miss."

Again that glance, weighing his chances this time, and Sam really hoped he'd get a chance for a non-fatal shot if it came to that. But before either of them could come to a decision, Steve shuddered and went abruptly limp in the Winter Soldier's arms. The arm was off his throat a second later, though Barnes kept his other hand in place, covering Steve's eyes and cradling his head gently now into the hollow of his shoulder. 

"Bucky?" a tiny sound, barely a hiss of breath and hope on Steve's too-pale lips before he drew a great breath, shuddering and wet, into his lungs.

Not cutting his cold grey eyes away from Sam's face, the Winter Soldier smoothed his gleaming fingers through Steve's sweaty hair and gave a bitter smile. "Yeah, it's me. I gotcha, Stevie. I gotcha."

Steve took another breath, this one undeniably a sob, then gave a frantic wriggle and turned to bury his face in Barnes' jacket and cling there, shaking as the arm that had been killing him not moments before curled around the base of his skull and held him steady there.

Sam sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face, and set the pistol down in his lap. He'd clear the chambered round later, he figured. Steve would understand.

***

"Leave that," Barnes said from the hallway as Sam filled the coffeemaker's tiny plastic carafe at the sink. Sam didn't flinch at the voice, too close behind him, but well outside swinging range, and he definitely didn't fumble half the coffee packets into the sink, either.

He took a breath, staring at the mirror, and the glimpse of still, bare shoulder that was all he could see of Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .


	4. Vector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written before IM3. I had vague notions of having Steve quarantined in the Hulk Tank while his Serum fought off a zombification virus, and the team fretted over whether they would have to put him down or not. I think I was going to end it with Tony putting on a suit and going in to sit with him for the final fever spike, or something gooey like that.

"Malaria research," Coulson's voice was low and calm through the earpieces, cutting neatly through the roar of jet engines and ACDC. "And nothing cutting-edge, either. Just the same kind of virology that's being done all over the world right now. No suspect employees or researchers associated with the lab at all, nothing to flag it as a SHIELD issue."

"Until the CDC started to wet their HazMat suits and called for mama," Tony said, even the Iron Man's metallic tones sounding smugly amused. 

Coulson ignored him. "The lab went into lockdown yesterday at five, broadcast its automated quarantine signal to the CDC and local authorities according to its registered protocols, and half an hour after that it went dark."

"Dark?" Steve asked, eyes narrowing. "Dark how?"

"Unresponsive to radio contact, cell phone or landline, or loudspeaker hail from outside the compound," the answer came, shaded just barely on the nervous side of neutral, which for Coulson meant almost as much as a stammering babble. "And the computer system seems to have executed a full system format after the lockdown. No one has been able to get any hard data on what was happening at the time of the breach."

The comm picked up Bruce's soft whistle so clearly it raised the hair on Steve's neck. "That's... bad. But what makes it SHIELD business? Did someone get out with weaponized samples or something?"

"No," Iron Man put in, serious now there was hard data to discuss. "According to the breach-code in the quarantine alert, it was an in-lab compromise, not a security fail. Someone might've been after their samples, but the lockdown procedure would have stopped them getting clear."

"And you're hacking this out of a bricked computer system how, exactly?" Clint challenged from the pilot's seat. "Divination?" 

"Just because the lab's computer shot itself in the operating system doesn't mean the CDC's did," Tony answered primly. "That still doesn't explain SHIELD's interest though. Or what we're supposed to be doing in there."

"Are we to rescue survivors?" Thor sounded hopeful.

The long hesitation was as good as a two-letter answer. The agent sounded genuinely regretful when he spoke again. "Survivors will need to be secured onsite, assuming you encounter any. Under no circumstances are you to extract anyone you find inside. We do not understand enough about what's in that lab to risk it getting loose into the rest of the world."

"Then why are we going in at all?" Again, it was Bruce who asked the cold questions, his eyes wary and devastated with experience. "Why isn't SHIELD sterilizing the whole facility if it's that much of a risk?"

"I'm sending video to your tablets now," was the only answer Coulson gave.

Unsurprisingly, it was Tony who got to it first, bringing the file up on the HUD inside his helmet while the others were still opening bags and powering up. "Oh no," he said as the grainy, hand-held video zoomed past ambulances, police tape and a mile of parking lot to focus on the lobby windows. "Oh, _hell_ no!"

~*~

"If it's based somehow on the malaria virus, then it can go into remission," Bruce was arguing as if he more wanted to believe than was managing it.

"Hypothetically," Natasha agreed, pulling on body armor over her normal kevlar catsuit. "But how many lives can we stake on that bet? We don't know vector parameters, aside from that mosquitoes were at one point involved, and that Hollywood's got opinions on the concept."

"For the record, I'd just like to say that when this is all done, I volunteer to find George Romero and put an arrow through his nuts," Clint added cheerfully. "Assuming I don't wind up joining the undead horde or anything."

Steve looked up from his sixth re-watch of the long-range camera footage with a scowl. "Un-dead? What makes you think these people are vampiric? They don't show any reaction to direct sunlight-"

"Pop culture reference, Cap," Coulson put in. "Not relevant here."

"Correction; _absolutely_ relevant here!" Tony objected, leaning over Steve's shoulder to point. "Look at the wounds on this one; those are fatal. You can totally see trachea. And yet note the absence of corpselike behavior. And that one over there, how severe the limp is? That leg's got to be broken, or broken off, but she's not reacting to the pain, is she? Oh, and let's not overlook the fact that they seem to be _eating each other_! That's all classic George Romero _Night of the Living Dead_ zombie behavior."

Coulson gave Tony a stare. " _Night of the Living Dead_ is fiction, Stark."

"And I have it on good authority that mad scientists who play around with dangerous viruses to make them even more dangerous are frequently known to like fiction," Tony came back. "Bruce, do I lie? Mad scientists totally dig zombie flicks, don't we?"

"Appalling as that point is, yes," Bruce sighed, finally accepting the body armor Natasha was holding out at him. "It is possible to tailor viral behavior to specific, grisly, and irresponsible ends, and zombie movies are a favorite with alienated undergrads in med school. But I'd really rather focus on the fact that those people in there are _victims_."

"I'd really rather focus on none of you getting eaten," Tony replied. "I mean, I figure none of them look like they can manage a can opener, so I'll be safe either way, and no zombie ever made could chew through Hulk Hide, but there are others who are not so well-armored."

Steve chose not to point out that the serum was designed to be virus-proof, and instead returned his attention to the information on the tablet. "That's why this is going to be a surgical, precision strike. Get in, recover the backups and samples, and get out. Direct lines, no corners and as little exposure as possible." He pinned them each in turn with a stern glance. 

"The plan is as follows. Thor and Iron Man make a hole in the roof here, and then another in the floor below that. That opens the primary lab to flying in and out. Hawkeye stays on the roof and keeps the exit route through the top floor clear. Thor, Iron Man and I will clear the lab and maintain the perimeter while Dr. Banner and Black Widow collect the tape drives and lab samples we're here for. Yes, Tony," he held up a hand to forestall the protest, "I'm aware that you're the computer genius, but we don't know if the..." he glanced at Bruce, "insurgents will even feel the Widow's Stings, but your repulsors will definitely hold them off in numbers, and the Widow's got the best evasion skills of us all. Once we've got what we came for, we get back out to the roof, activate the force field generator, and go home." He turned off his tablet with a swipe. "Any questions?"

Tony put his hand up, and against his better judgment, Steve gave him a nod. "If Hawkeye does join the undead horde, can we keep his animated head around as a mascot?"

~*~


	5. Shell Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was one where my ambition outstripped my stamina. It was meant to be a Phillip K Dick kind of brainfuck, with some villain or other making the whole team think they're just inmates in an insane asylum, and Steve (who thinks he's pre-serum) and Tony (who thinks he killed Pepper and Rhodey) to work out the plot and get them all seeing through it and escaping. 
> 
> The fatal flaw in the whole thing turned out to be the villain. Herein I proved the writer's truth that a story lives or dies on the strength of its villain -- because this one died for want of a good one. (Or rather, it had too many good villains, but none of those were actually the Boss.)

"So tell me about this 'Nomad' character, Steven," Dr. Zola said, turning the sketchbook to face Steve. "He is meant to represent you, yes?"

Steve gave the page a neutral glance and shrugged. "Not particularly."

The doctor answered with a smile that was comforting, sympathetic, and itchy with condescension. "Come now. You have given him your features. Oh, not your physique, clearly," he added in answer to Steve's eyebrow, "but that is understandable. An idealized version of yourself would naturally be healthier, free of the diseases that trouble you. Bigger, stronger...able to fight perceived injustices...?" Steve didn't fill the pause. Zola went on as if that proved his point. "I find the design of the costume to be of particular significance though. Perhaps you could explain your intent to me?"

Steve did sigh then. "He's a superhero, doc. They don't exactly go to work in suit and tie."

"No, of course not, Steven, but all the same you must admit that their costumes are heavy with symbolism," Zola said, all chummy and hollow. "The Batman with his animal totem to represent the repressed violence of the readers given free reign; Wonder Woman with her fetishized American iconography; The Shadow with his cowl and cape that allow him to attack his foes anonymously, without fear of personal consequence. I notice this Nomad wears a mask as well..." 

Steve knew he was supposed to be warming up to this doctor; uncurling, letting him in. His caseworker had made it plain that Zola's say so was the only thing that would ever get Steve out of here, but he was getting really tired of the guy's ham handed attempts to psychoanalyze the scribbles Steve did to stave off the boredom and despair that haunted his days in the ward. It was like Zola thought every single thing Steve did was either a cry for help, or an admission of some hidden guilt, and he was just... just done. It was a stupid game, they'd been playing it for weeks, and he was done.

"It's because he doesn't know who he's supposed to be," Steve said, sitting forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced under his chin, and his most earnest, guileless stare fixed firmly in place. "He was someone else before, but he had to quit and move on because someone betrayed him. Because he'd lost his faith. That's why his chest is bare; because he has no armor there. Nothing to shield that vulnerability. Oh, and also because he's gay." Zola blinked, and Steve smiled brightly. "Yeah, gay guys totally go for the bare, hairless chest and shiny black tights, right? So he's trolling for dates while he fights crime across America."

"And what are his powers?" Zola asked, mistrust beginning to color his voice. 

"Well, aside from being stronger, faster, and smarter than anybody else, he can fly." Steve beamed as Zola frowned and flipped several of the sketchbook's pages. He could practically see the notation 'flight risk' going down in his file, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "Oh, he _doesn't_ fly unless he absolutely has to, because it makes him think of his sidekick, who got blown off an airplane at thirty thousand feet, and then Nomad gets all sad and grows a beard and tries to kill himself, but if he needs to fly, say, to get a kitten out of a tree or something, he can. That's what the cape is for."

"I see." Zola scowled, cottoning on at last.

"And then there's the hypnotic power of his flexing abs, too," Steve went on, not even pretending to hide his sarcasm now. "That makes a lot of the bad guys cave right in when they see it."

That was when Dr. Zola closed the sketchbook with a sigh. "I think perhaps you are feeling too contentious for today's session to be productive, Steven," he said, pushing the book toward him with one finger. "We will resume when you find yourself in a less sarcastic mood, and perhaps then we might make some progress, yes?"

"Sure, Doc," Steve answered, scooping up his book and heading for the door with a grin. 

Smith was waiting for him outside, all bony jaw and stony glare. Steve kept his smile in place and his stride jaunty as the burly bald nurse fell into looming step behind him, close enough that his breath stirred the hair on the crown of Steve's head. Until he had to duck back with a curse because Steve's sudden yawn-and-stretch threatened to whack him in the head with a sketchbook, that is. 

"Whoops," Steve smirked as he let his arms fall to his sides again. "Sorry about that John. Didn't notice you back there."

The man's flush was instant and furious, but after a moment, he smiled, mean. "Oh, I think you did, Rogers," he growled, resuming his place as they fell into step again. "I think always you do notice exactly where I am. I have seen you watching, have read your file. You are known for your... deviance"

"Not a crime to be gay in this country, John," Steve said, resisting the urge to walk to the TV room faster. It wasn't like Smith would ease off in the presence of other nurses or patients -- the staff was just as bored and starved for entertainment as the inmates, after all, and Smith on a rampage was as good a show as any, so long as you weren't the one he was chewing over. 

But patients weren't allowed in their rooms for at least an hour after every therapy session, no matter how rough it had been, in case the cleaning staff needed extra time to search the rooms for contraband. Steve had gotten away with a few extra supplies from the art room in the name of 'art therapy', but he hadn't sucked up enough to get any leeway from security. There would be no special leniencies for him; the only way past Smith's daily dose of hate was through the other side. As usual.

Smith snorted, and then faked spitting on the back of Steve's head. "It is when you murder your best friend for not returning your indecent advances." Steve didn't clench his fists, didn't falter in his stride, didn't even let his breath hitch, but he couldn't stop the angry flush that crept up his neck at that. 

Smith, of course, didn't miss it either. "One might consider it a kind of atonement, your attempted suicide after the crime, but really I think it was simply cowardice. Or a cunning attempt to conceal your crime under the mask of fragility." Oh, how that word curdled on Smith's tongue. Steve bit his own, and the nurse huffed a laugh. "If you had truly suffered a psychotic break, you would now be glad of the doctor's willingness to help you, grateful for the time and effort he expends on your behalf, but instead you are rude, you are presumptuous, and you are spiteful to him."

Smith caught Steve's shoulder, hauled him up shy of the TV room door, and slung him back against the wall so he could leer, spitting close, into his face. "You imagine yourself clever, Rogers, special. But there is nothing special about you. You are just another deviant. A weak willed, murderous deviant from Brooklyn who deserves better success than the _attempted_ suicide to which he pretended!"

Steve met Smith's dark glare watt for watt, and then forced himself to smile. "Well if I'm so dangerous to the object of my affections, John, maybe you oughta quit flirting with me. I might get ideas about you." He blew an air-kiss for emphasis, and wasn't surprised when that got him jostled against the wall again, his head whacking the tiles hard enough to spark stars behind his eyes. "Careful," he said around the wince, "You keep turning me on, and I'll start to think you're nothing but a dirty tease."

That won him another thump, but it was the last. Doctor Killian, who obviously hadn't learned How Things Go In The Ward yet, was looking over at them now, and had sent Barton and Coulson to intervene. Smith followed Steve's glance, then bared his teeth and turned to intercept the other nurses and explain himself to the new young Doctor. 

Steve slipped into the TV room, and didn't rub at the back of his head until he'd put two sofas and a ping pong table between them. His scalp was sore and he had a goose egg, but at least there was no blood. He slid into a chair behind the table in the back corner, put his back to the wall and set his sketchbook on the half-done jigsaw nobody had touched since Steve had arrived. 

As usual, the red headed woman was at the table's far end, staring blankly at a handful of the pieces. Steve had never seen her try to fit them together -- wasn't even sure he'd ever seen her move to touch one of them, yet she always had a few to stare at whenever her handler brought her down to the public rooms.

"You should be careful." Steve blinked, stared a moment before realizing the low, gravelly voice hadn't come from the blank-faced woman, but from the one-armed attendant who never let her out of his sight. The man spoke quietly, slowly, and through a thick accent, as though he'd almost forgotten how, but his grey eyes locked on Steve's face with an eerie intensity. "It is reckless to provoke that one."

Steve swallowed, trying to remember if he'd ever heard the man speak at all before, but then he hid his nerves under a careless shrug. "He's just another bully."

That won a scoff, and the flicker of a smile half hid behind too-long hair. "He is a bully with power. That makes him worth fearing... if not respecting." The man flicked a derisive glance at the tense knot of staff members in the hall, which Steve followed, noting that Doctor Zola, and Doctor Laufeyson had both come to join the fray. 

Steve shook his head again, and flipped his notebook open. "Still just a bully," he said. "You run away, they just chase you." Then he peered at the coil of plastic that joined the pages and frowned. "Huh. Dropped my pencil."

There was a sudden scuffle, the woman darting from her chair, only to be caught and slung roughly back into it by her handler.

"Hey," Steve began as the man pinned her in place with his hip and yanked her shirt up. But then he pulled Steve's pencil from beneath the woman's bra and tossed it on the table. Steve caught it up with a nervous glance toward the hallway, glad, a second later when his pencil sharpener clattered over the disassembled puzzle, that he hadn't seen where the attendant had found _that_.

Her contraband removed, the red head slumped back against the chair again, and her vague green gaze drifted to the bare slice of table between her hands. Steve licked his lips, eyeing the rainbow of green and purple bruising her restraints had left on her thin wrists, then he closed his notebook and stood. "I think I'll go outside."

The attendant, who had resumed his post against the wall, merely shrugged, his steely eyes fixed on the red headed woman as if he'd never thought of speaking to Steve at all.


End file.
